History Marches On
by Megalomaniac2
Summary: Millennium spent decades waiting. But the world didn't wait for them. A look at how the Major and his followers dealt with one of history's changes during their long stay in the shadows.
1. Reprimand

_November 9th, 1989_

"_Nnneeeeiiiiinnnnnn!"_ An anguished, sorrowful cry ripped through the evening air of Brazil, audible to almost every being in Jaburo, secret base of the Millennium organization. Considering that most members of Millennium had superhuman senses, this was not saying much, but still it was rare to hear screams of such a volume in Jaburo* (except those coming from Dok's lab or the mess hall, both of which were heavily soundproofed). For a moment, every creature within the hidden Nazi facility was still.

Then, the singing began again.

"_Zum letzten Mal wird nun Appell_ _geblasen_," Rip van Winkle's voice rang out as she twirled and danced atop the massive metal skeleton which lay in Millennium's largest hangar. For the moment, the unfinished _Deus Ex Machina_ served as the Obersturmführer's personal stage while she belted out the "Horst Wessel Lied," song of the Third Reich, wearing her finest suit for the occasion. Her voice was clear and joyful as she sang, flipping and spinning her musket about her like the world's deadliest conductor baton.

"_Zum Kampfe steh'n wir alle schon bereit! __Bald flattern Hitlerfahnen über Barrikaden..."_ Her glasses and teeth gleamed in the powerful floodlights which were trained upon her. They flashed as she spun on her perch near the zeppelin's nose, her long dark hair flowing and shimmering behind her head. _"Die Knechtschaft dauert nur noch kurze Zeit!"_

Clustered about the airship's enormous frame, hundreds of soldiers of the Last Battalion cheered and stamped their feet and sang along. Their fangs were bared in their smiles, their voices raised in joy as swastika flags fluttered in their hands. Rarely in their long, dark exile had any of the members of Millennium been so happy. Today was a great day, and not just because Lieutenant van Winkle was giving one of the best performances of her unlife. Someone had set up a small television set in the hangar, and it was showing the news: the crowds streaming across the border, the celebrations, the end of an era and the reunification of what had once been Millennium's Fatherland.

Suddenly, the hangar's Public Address system crackled to life. _"Obersturmführer__ Rip van Winkle! You are ordered to cease this nonsense at once!"_ The Major's voice barked. "_All soldiers disperse immediately! Resume your duties this instant! This is the order of the Battalion Commander! Disperse! _" In a flash the joyful audience was scattering, vampires dashing away from the zeppelin's frame and back to their tasks. _"First Lieutenant van Winkle! You will report to my office straight away!_" The PA shut off with an angry electronic scratching, leaving the hangar silent except for frightened, scrambling soldiers.

Flabbergasted, Rip stared at the speaker for several seconds, half-expecting it to speak again and reveal the whole thing as a joke. When did the Major ever get angry? Even when he was disappointed, his unsettling smile only grew wider before he meted out his punishments. His grin might shrink to a smug, sometimes almost imperceptible smirk, or vanish for a moment during the bellowing of a stern order, yet for a man devoted so utterly to the cause of human suffering, the Major was downright jolly. When in all the decades of Millennium's waiting and planning did he ever rage and yell?

To her surprise, the speaker did activate again. _"Oh Lieutenant… You are not going to keep me waiting, are you?"_ The Major's voice was now calmer and more familiar, although there was a touch of hoarseness to it. Eyes widening, Rip realized that it had been he who had cried out in despair during her performance. Sighing, she shouldered her musket and saluted in the general direction of the speaker before starting the climb down from the zeppelin's frame. Although her commander was not physically present, as long as she had Dok's chip in her he could always be watching, and therefore merit a salute. Privacy was one of the things they'd all given up long ago, along with their humanity.

***

The Major's office was exactly what anyone with even a passing familiarity of the Millennium commander would expect: large, sumptuously luxurious, close to the kitchen, and absolutely stuffed with things of war. The few spaces on the walls which were not dominated by maps were occupied by photographs and paintings of past wars. Rip knew that most of the many drawers and chests in the room contained some sort of antique weapon or battle souvenir, ranging from beautifully crafted swords to the more macabre: chunks of charred rubble, pieces of razor-sharp shrapnel, preserved bits of flesh bearing particularly interesting war wounds. There were also a few reels of the more entertaining war footage Millennium possessed, just a small part of a collection any museum in the world would beg and grovel to see. There was a theatre on the base for the viewing of films ranging from romanticized Hollywood war epics to grainy images of carnage from the earliest beginnings of moving pictures; however sometimes the Major preferred to see something right in his office or even in his own bedroom, and had his own screen and projector for that purpose. Books and manuscripts bulged from every shelf and were piled upon almost every surface. Whether they dealt with history or theory or memoir or entered the realm of fiction, each and every one of them was devoted to the same subject.

There were even a few books of entomology and animal behaviorism: the Major delighted in battle among all creatures. According to Schrodinger, he sometimes kept pets in his personal bedroom- terrariums, ant farms, vicious dogs, once even a wasp's nest procured by the Captain and contained in the room by a device of Dok's making. The Major liked to amuse himself by fomenting conflict amongst his little toys, none of which ever lived very long.

The Major himself was seated behind an ornate desk of enormous proportions, almost every inch of which was occupied with paperwork, except for a corner which was set aside for a saucer of tea and biscuits. The Millennium Group might have been a collection of freaks and lunatics, refugees of a long-dead regime, an army without a country or a cause aside from chaos and suffering, but they were still National Socialists, and they were still going to keep their records straight even when the world burned around them. Every bullet fired, every uniform repaired, every 'ration' drained of their blood, and every body disposed of- it all had to be accounted for, and these tasks occupied much of the time of Millennium's senior officers when they weren't busy planning eternal war.

Rip approached the desk cautiously. Her hand tightened nervously around the butt of her musket when she saw her superior. The Major… did not look like himself. His clothing was rumpled, his hair a mess, and his smile was forced and twitching in a way Rip had never seen in over half a century of serving him. He did not look up as she approached, instead concentrating on signing a sheet, slashing his signature onto the paper with such clumsy ferocity that the page tore. _He looks… he looks as though he's gone mad,_ Rip thought. That was a concept which sent a shiver of terror down her spine, since it implied that, for this grinning maniac who loved war as though it was his wife, there was some depth of insanity yet to be plumbed. The Captain stood behind his master, as always looking as though he was carved of stone. Rip cast a look at him, pleading for some hint as to what had come over their commander, but of course there was no response. The Major looked up, fixed her in his gold eyes, reached for his teacup, and spoke.

"Ah, our most beloved performer graces us with her presence at last. Did you stop to write out a few autographs for your adoringly unproductive audience, hmm Obersturmführer? Oh, I certainly hope not. I would hate to think that any more of my troops, the proud, disciplined, vicious soldiers of the Waffen-SS's last and greatest battalion, had wasted any more of their valuable time _with your idiotic childish prancing!"_ Suddenly the Major's hand tightened around his teacup and the ceramic cracked and broke, shards sprinkling the thick carpet below the desk. Silently and smoothly, the Captain bent down and began sweeping the pieces into one of his hands. Rip van Winkle stared at her Major, openmouthed.

The Major grinned like a shark. "Oh, now what is this, Rip van Winkle? Your lovely voice fails you? Only now do you remember the virtue of silence! What a pity you did not do so earlier, instead of making such an absolute fool of yourself atop of my flagship!" His face contorted into a scowl bordering on the childish. Beside him, the Captain deposited the remains of the teacup into the wastebasket beside the desk and then straightened up, resuming his usual looming.

That did it. Whether it was possession, brainwashing, or some new and terrifying form of madness, as far as Rip was concerned the being in front of her was not her commander. This was not the Major who had taken them all from the burning wreck of their homeland and given them a new life in the world's shadows. This was not the Major who, after decades of his long and frequent speeches, could still send her into paroxysms of bloody nostalgia when he spoke of the familiar battlefields, of the times when they were part of an empire, and who could still make her giddy with anticipation when he described their grand and terrible return, their long-awaited vengeance. This was not the Major who gleefully applauded her singing, who was the only one she could really talk about _Der Freischutz_ and other operas with. This wasn't her commander, and she wanted to know why.

Rip's heels clicked together audibly as she shot up ramrod-straight, coming to full attention, and saluted, arm snapping out and up. "Herr Major!" she said. "Humbly requesting permission to speak freely!"

The Major sighed. "So quickly forgotten silence is, like all virtues. Clearly the lesson has yet to be learned! But by all means, indulge yourself my dear Huntress. I do believe your education in this matter has only begun."

She opened her mouth, took a breath, and looked at the Captain for some sort of encouragement, some sign that he was as bothered by his master's behaviour as she was. The Captain only stared blankly into space, and Rip could find no words. Instead, she stormed over to the small television perched on a cabinet near the desk and flipped it on. It showed what almost every television in the world was showing, what almost every radio was broadcasting, what almost every newspaper was printing. As some enterprising individual took a sledgehammer to concrete on the screen, the Major began to tremble slightly. "Obersturmfuhrer," he said softly, "shut that off immediately."

Rip obeyed, then spun about, teeth bared. "So, _mein fuhrer,_" she said, "you are not pleased to see the Fatherland being reunited? To see the Wall which has disgraced our beloved capital for so long finally being brought to ruin?"

"As a matter of fact, no, no I am not pleased. I am not the least bit pleased by these unfortunate developments, Rip van Winkle, not at all." The Major was wearing the tiny smirk he displayed whenever he was humouring the Opera House Division, the useless old humans who, even after all these years, still fancied themselves the true superiors of the Last Battalion and the eventual wielders of immortality. It was never an expression he displayed at his happiest, but at least it was familiar, and so Rip was encouraged.

"However, political developments are not the issue here, are they?" The Major continued. "It's this stupid spirit of celebration! We grim undead soldiers, we monsters of blood and iron- we should never find joy in anything except the rapture of war. If our jackboots tramped upon Europe's soil once again, if our long-famished troops could have their well-deserved feast while I had the pleasure of watching and appreciating the symphony of the slaughter- oh yes, that would be a time for celebration! That would be a time for joy! But this- this-" He broke off, fuming. "This is… bad for discipline."

"I see…" Rip's eyes narrowed. One of her hands began to stroke the musket thoughtfully. "I would have thought that you of all people would be overjoyed to see our land being purged of the Bolshevik filth, Major. Don't you know that this is only the beginning of their end? Their hateful, vile empire is starting to come apart." She clapped her hands together at the thought of it, musket momentarily held between arm and body. "It's all coming down like a house of cards!"

"Do not presume to lecture me on what I already know!" Major's fist slammed onto his desk. "Oh yes, it's coming apart, all right- all of it! Goodbye Lenin, goodbye Stalin, goodbye Khrushchev. Goodbye KGB and Lubyanka, goodbye NKVD and Stasi, goodbye arms race and space race. Farewell to the revolution, farewell to the eternal struggle of proletariat against bourgeoisie, farewell to East versus West." Major's smirk had taken on a decidedly bitter edge. "I have had Dok conduct the analysis three times. It is inevitable. Our great and hated enemy of so many years is dying- not on the battlefield, but of 'natural causes.' And my troops celebrate! Ha!"

"Oh, Major." Understanding and relief flooded through Rip's mind, accompanied by embarrassment at not realizing sooner what was happening. It was so simple. "You are worried about what this means for our campaign, aren't you?"

"Campaign?" The Major spun around in his chair and sat silently for a moment, leaving his subordinate to fidget as she stared at his back. "There is no more campaign."

Rip gasped and clutched her musket more tightly to her. "What? Sir, you can't be serious!"

"Oh, I'm sure I'll come up with something else eventually," he said, tossing a hand up offhandedly. "I'll start some lesser conflict to content myself with, in a feeble attempt to forget the marvels that might have been. But the plan we have been working towards all along shall now never come to fruition. All our effort and preparation has been wasted." He stood up and began to pace back and forth in front of the motionless Captain. "You know how it was supposed to happen, the intricate performance I intended to play out!" She did, she had it memorized almost as well as she did Wagner's works_,_ but she never tired of hearing of it. It wasn't as though there was any force on Earth which could have stopped the Major from making his speeches anyway.

"On the last year of this wonderfully bloody century, on the cusp of the new millennium and its supposedly brighter and happier future, we would arise! First, our grand charge across the Atlantic, the vast bulk of our airships blotting out the moon and stars above London. We would raze that beautiful city to the ground and give its charred corpse to our soldiers for a well-earned sack, a victory feast! And at the same time, we would settle our little feud with Hellsing and Alucard once and for all- or perhaps that mighty line of knights and their fearsome servant would smash us and all we have strived for, grinding us all to dust! Ah, that would be a good end, would it not? A worthy death at the hands of a wonderful enemy!" Rip had her own opinions on being destroyed by Hellsing and Alucard, but said nothing.

"But if we triumphed, then the curtain would go up on the next and more marvellously intricate act. Our network of would-be immortals all over the world would spring into action, by then consisting of dozens or hundreds or even thousands of those seeking eternal life made to do our bidding, pulling strings for us as we pulled theirs. And then what fun we would have! Ah, who needs ninety-nine balloons when we could accomplish just as much with just a few zeppelins, ja?" Rip was gladdened to see the Major grinning with his usual level of bloodlust now. "For what would those people in power, those fearful and eager warriors with their nerves drawn thin over decades of suspicion and intrigue, what would they think when one of the greatest cities on Earth is utterly destroyed by an unknown enemy? Especially when confusion and terror, rumour and misinformation are running rampant across the globe, when they are witnessing horrors in their homes, when their own selves are being destroyed by those they thought they could trust? Would they believe that an army of Nazi vampires had crawled its way out of the past to once again menace the present? Would they believe such obvious nonsense, especially when their old, precious enemies were right there in front of them with weapons drawn?" The Major spread his arms wide. "Or would they embrace the madness and grapple with their foes, toppling together off that glorious precipice they have teetered upon for so long! Starting the greatest, most magnificent war ever conceived, a war without limit or end! "

He was now in his element, his most happy of fantasies, and Rip smiled as she allowed herself to be swept away by the tide of his words, losing herself in visions of missiles flying through the air, tanks crushing city after city, aircraft waltzing overhead. And afterwards the world would truly belong to them! They would stand tall above the ashes, able to do whatever they liked. Would they stay in London and build it into Midian, capital of a new undead Reich? Would they fly to Berlin and have their bloody homecoming, giving their former countrymen a harsh re-education in what it truly meant to be Aryan? Perhaps they would be able to acquire a nuclear device or two and send a little gift off to the so-called 'State of Israel'- see what a sanctuary for the 'Chosen people' it would be then!

It would never end, not ever, the calculations had been run again and again. Between the shock of a new world war and the nightmare unleashed by a vampire army let loose upon the world, civilization would disintegrate into conflict, strife, and more and more war. Many of the upstart young freaks created by Millennium would no doubt find ways of breaking free of the organization's control, would build their own little empires of death with armies of ghouls. So much the better. Vampire against vampire, vampire against human, human against human, it would be a brave new world of boundless chaos and battle. An opera with no final act or closing curtain, in which she and her comrades could sing their deadly songs forever, under the joyful conduction of their commander. Thinking about it almost made her heart beat again.

Suddenly, the Major stopped his monologue, a truly rare sight, and clasped his hands behind his back, bowing his head. "Of course," he said, "now none of that will ever happen."

"Major! Come now, you don't really mean that!" Rip said. "Surely there's something we can do to make things happier for us? Just because things may not go our way doesn't mean that we just have to sit back and do nothing!"

He shook his head. "Regrettably, no Lieutenant. Dok has investigated every possibility. What has begun is occurring on a massive scale, like so many other great changes. There is no nail we may pull, for want of which the future may be altered. Assassinate Gorbachev, slip a freak into the Pentagon, send Schrodinger to plant false data in the Kremlin- none of it will make a bit of difference. I have looked at the Professor's calculations myself. We are faced with an enemy that cannot be fought by conventional means, that final foe to which all must finally fall. Time, my Huntress, inevitable time. My folly was in thinking that just because we were immortal, we would no longer have to factor it into our plans, that we had all the time in the world. The Millennium organization, waiting until the approach of the millennium to strike- what a stupid, indulgent little touch!" He gave a bitter little laugh. "The fact is that just because we have stood still in time, does not mean that the rest of the world could be expected to. History continues on its course, like a great river, smashing all obstacles."

The Major faced her again, smiling sadly. "We could try anyway, I know. It would be hopeless, but still: to take arms against the flow of history itself, what a struggle that would be! Yet to attempt to prolong this charming Cold War which has entertained us for so long would be to neglect our other enemy, who we are promised to first. We must choose between our battle with Hellsing and our old, precious hatred with the Reds."

"But..." Rip scrambled in her mind for something else to say. "Sir, even if it means bad things for our campaign, it is still great for Deutschland, ja? It's still our home!"

"Obersturmführer, sometimes I despair for you." The Major sighed and sat back down, motioning to the Captain, who promptly produced another teacup from somewhere in his long coat and poured his master some more tea. "Do you really imagine that I give a damn about Germany? Or that the country you seek to celebrate bears the slightest resemblance to the one you waste so much time longing for? What do you think you would see if you set foot in Berlin tomorrow? Would it be your home? Would it be the same old culture and pride that you loved so much? Or would you be a stranger in your own land, facing the effects of decades of degeneration at the hands of Bolsheviks on one side and Western decadence on the other? Communism, capitalism, what the hell does it matter- the country I served was the Third Reich! I was proud to do so, to be part of a system which truly understood what it was to be human and struggle in this world of strife, to participate in the greatest of all great wars! But that empire no longer exists! It was dragged down in a cataclysm of fire and blood and steel, its cities ruined, its armies broken, its leaders killed. It was glorious! But it was also all so final, so very thorough in its destruction. We few, we unhappy few, we band of monsters- we are all that is left of that great power." He took a sip of tea. "Perhaps we will be able to rebuild it, but honestly I cannot bring myself to care. It's the struggle along the way that interests me- that terrible pitiless struggle. That struggle which we shall now never experience."

"Major…" _Do not start crying, Rip van Winkle, don't you dare start crying!_ She told herself. But the picture her commander had painted of her beloved Germany as a long-vanished, irrecoverable relic was not a pretty one, and she began to feel tears welling in her eyes. She grasped her musket tighter, trying to maintain control.

The Major raised his hand. "No. No more. I do believe I have indulged you more than long enough, Huntress. This discussion is closed. We may have lost our war, yet we will still have our discipline. We shall carry on shining our buttons, polishing our boots, dressing our ranks, and conducting lots and lots of glorious drills. We shall continue to exist, dwelling here in the darkness, a walking relic from a time of pride and terror, for as long as our antique uniforms hold together. There will be no further unauthorized celebrations within this battalion, especially not to the detriment of our duties. From this point forward you will keep your musical hobbies to yourself, within the confines of your quarters. Oh, and another thing." He cast a critical eye up and down her suit. "From now on I want to see you in a proper uniform, First Lieutenant."

"What? You want me to put away my suits… I-"

"Ah-ah-ah," The Major shook a warning finger at her. "No more insubordination, Obersturmfuhrer. Or else I may have to give serious thought to enforcing regulation haircuts as well." He looked meaningfully at Rip's long, extraordinary hair, particularly the impossible curl in front. "Is that understood, Rip van Winkle?"

Rip swallowed, and tried not to tremble as she saluted. "Jawohl, Sturmbahnfuhrer!"

He made a shooing motion, then looked back down at his papers. "You are dismissed."

She spun on her heel and marched out of the office, risking a look back over her shoulder before she exited. The Major was shrouded in shadow, his head hanging down, staring at his desk without writing anything. The Captain was looking at her, and she thought she could see a hint of sadness in his blank stare. Then she followed her orders, and marched with her back straight and her eyes forward straight to her quarters. She then changed out of her suit and into her uniform, hanging up the civilian clothes carefully.

Only then did she hold her musket tight against her breast and, thinking of her commander, her comrades, her country and her life, allowed herself to weep.

***

*A/N: 'Jaburo' is apparently a reference to a similar secret base in Brazil from the Gundam animes, which Kouta Hirano is a fan of. This is a two-part story, hopefully the second chapter will be done soon!


	2. Remedy

A/N: Wow, I was expecting writing this to take, like, a week tops. In my defense, writing a political discussion involving a Nazi catboy is _hard._ Thanks to Caitlin for beta reading and helping me finally finish this!

***

_January 19__th__, 1990_

"_Nnneeeeiiiiinnnnnn!"_ An anguished, sorrowful cry ripped through the evening air of Brazil, audible to almost every being in Millennium's secret base. For a moment, every creature within the hidden Nazi facility was still.

Then, Rip van Winkle resumed her boot-polishing. The Captain's inspection was going to be soon, and if she and the platoon she had been put in charge of weren't absolutely perfect there would be hell to pay. These men had been put on half rations during the last inspection due to an untied bootlace, which was why Rip was now personally responsible for making sure they were all completely shipshape. That was how things worked in Millennium now.

The past months had been the worst Rip had experienced since the fall of the Reich. The Major had tightened his control over every aspect of Millennium to a stranglehold. Discipline had always been strict in the unit, but it had been borne with pride and determination by the hardened Waffen-SS volunteers who made up the battalion. Now, restrictions had taken on an arbitrary and cruel tinge. Appearances and mind-numbing minutiae had become all-consuming in their significance throughout the unit, and soldiers were now punished for things as trivial as tarnished buttons or spilling at mealtimes (a frequent occurrence, especially when dealing with live rations). All discussion of the outside world had been strictly prohibited, and televisions and radio sets had been confiscated. There had been no further celebration of Germany's reunification (except for among the old folks, who no one in the Battalion would ever stoop to fraternizing with). Gone was the cheerfulness and camaraderie which had characterized the interactions between members of the Last Battalion. In fact, gone was the Major himself- more and more the Battalion commander remained secluded in his office or in his quarters, brooding, sending the Captain around the base to enforce his will. Rip couldn't remember going so long without hearing one of his long, bloody harangues.

"Did you hear that? It sounded like Lieutenant Blitz!" One of the soldiers said. Rip glared at him.

"Never mind that! Focus on your uniform or you're going to be- _dummkopf!_ Is that a stain? Tell me, how do you think it is going to go for you when the Captain sees you with a stain? You silly excuse for a soldier, you should be-_eeep!_"

Rip was suddenly lifted into the air from behind, her feet dangling a good six inches off the floor. "You have good ears, soldier," Zorin Blitz snarled. "Excuse us for a moment. Rip, we need to talk."

"But- but-" Not needing to breathe didn't mean one couldn't gasp when, for instance, hoisted off the ground unexpectedly by your psychotic mesmerist comrade. "The Captain will be here any-"

"Good, I need to see him too. We need to have a Wehrwolf meeting." Zorin turned away, setting Rip back on the ground.

"But-"

"_Right fucking now."_

***

"Okay then, that took way too fucking long," Zorin said fifteen minutes later. "Now that we've got everyone, I'm calling this thing to order."

Millennium's top soldiers, informally referred to as the 'Wehrwolves', were standing around a table in the small poker room which had been set up some time in the 60s at Tubalcain Alhambra's insistence. It hadn't been used for quite some time- the 'Dandy Man' had suddenly stopped insisting that regular poker nights would be good for unit morale around the same time he discovered that, enchanted playing cards or not, the Captain had a poker face that quite simply could not be beat. Dandy was currently off babysitting the old folks, which suited Zorin just fine. This was a Germans-only affair.

"Are you sure about that, Lieutenant?" Schrodinger teased. "The Captain is the highest-ranking officer here, after all. Shouldn't he call things to order?" He grinned at the silent werewolf, who gave no sign that he had even heard.

"Hah-hah. First order of business: shut the fuck up, Schrodinger."

"I am really not sure about this." Dok nibbled at his finger nervously. He had been the hardest for Zorin to convince to come, being deeply unsettled at the prospect of doing anything behind the Major's back. "It is all too irregular!"

"How's your research been going lately, Dok? Huh?" Zorin demanded.

Dok grimaced. "My progress has… slowed," he admitted. "The Major's demands grow increasingly more erratic and unreasonable, and even when I produce success his interest simply disappears! It is… discouraging."

"Damn fucking right it's discouraging!" Zorin yelled. "Do you know what that pudgy asshole did? He took my scythe!" She glared at the Captain. "Just told me to hand it over to 'Fido' here. He said it was an 'impractical weapon of no use in combat'. Can you fucking believe it?"

"I don't know, Zorin," Schrodinger said. "It is a pretty silly weapon. What were you trying to do with it, make yourself out to be a shinigamiiiiiiiiii-"

Schrodinger's words turned into a wail as Zorin heaved the catboy off his feet, tossing him through the air and into a wall on the other side of the room. As his body slid to the floor, she turned back to the others, snarling. "Look, let's stick to the point. I'm pissed also that the fucking human cockroaches aren't going to nuke each other to ashes anymore, but the Major's just has to get the fuck over it already. Agreed?"

"_Jawhol," _Rip said fervently, thinking of her suits.

"Yes, I suppose you're right." Dok lowered his head as he spoke, eyes hidden behind his impossible glasses. "He hasn't been this upset since the Missile Crisis ended peacefully."

"Yes, and he cheered right up once the President was shot… didn't he, Captain?" Rip smiled at the Captain, the whereabouts of whom on November 22nd, 1963 were an object of some debate within Millennium. "There's nobody who can die and make this one better, though."

The Captain said nothing. He simply stared at Zorin for what seemed to be a long, long time, not moving. Finally, he nodded.

"Gee Zorin, that sounds like a tall order." Schrodinger was standing right behind her, not a hair out of place, smirking with his hand on his hip. "Who do we know who could talk our Major out of his funk, huh? It would have to be someone special. Someone, I don't know, cute and uplifting and irresistible, nein?"

"Fuck you. Rip, you do it. Dok, back her up. Captain, maybe you can write shit down for him or something."

Rip shook her head, stroking her hair, fears of barbers dancing in her head. Dok mumbled something about the chain of command and refused to meet Zorin's glare. The Captain just stared. Schrodinger grinned, and Zorin groaned.

***

The Major's office was dark, silent, and still, except for a noise of metal entering wood. _Thunk. Thunk. Thunk._

The old, high-quality wood of the Major's desk and the map of the world unfurled upon it were both gaining several new stab wounds as he plunged an SS dagger into them again and again. _Thunk._ Moscow was gouged from the Earth. _Thunk._ Kiev joined it in oblivion. _Thunk._ Seattle, for a change of pace. _Thunk._ Moscow again, for emphasis.

"Whatcha doin', Major?"

The Major twitched unsettlingly, the dagger sinking deeper into the desk as Schrodinger suddenly spoke directly into his ear. "Warrant Officer," he said through a smile which consisted mostly of gritted teeth, "I believe I left the most explicit orders that I was not to be disturbed."

"Who with? The Captain?" Schrodinger grinned. "If you're depending on that guy to speak on your behalf, then I think you're going to be a little bit disappointed, mein Major."

"Go _away,_ Warrant Officer."

"Why?" Suddenly the catboy was standing in front of the desk instead of behind it. "Am I interrupting important map-ruining? Or-"

A gunshot cut him off. Smoke drifted from Major's Luger. Schrodinger looked at the hole which had appeared in the wall, a good three feet to his side.

"Wow. Half a century of practice-"

_Bang!_

"And your aim-"

_Bang!_

"-still just completely-"

_Bang!_

"-sucks, doesn't it Major?"

The Major glared at his pistol, then flung it aside in disgust and let his head fall to the desk.

Schrodinger hopped up on the desk and sat. "C'mon, Major. What's with the stabbing?"

He shrugged, not looking up. "If the cities of this planet will not be scourged from the map by the fires of war, than I shall take what I can get."

"But you're missing out on so much!" Schrodinger purred. "Cooped up in here, all alone in the dark- it's just not healthy. You don't get to see the sun shine, you don't get to hear the birds sing, and you're missing out on all the news!" The catboy tossed a newspaper at the Major, who promptly rolled it up and tried to swat him with it.

"Warrant Officer Schrodinger, _get out!_"

He smirked as he dodged. "No. See, the way I see it, Major, you've pretty much abdicated. Which means that I don't have to listen to anything you tell me."

This was not the best thing to say. "I am Generalissimo of this battalion, boy," the Major sneered. "No matter what the Colonel and the other old invalids think or say- within these ranks my command is irresistible, and always shall be until I or every other soldier is dead!"

"No, no, that doesn't sound quite right." Schrodinger tapped his chin thoughtfully. "I'm pretty sure the job description for a battalion commander involves more waging war, and less moping around."

"Oh, now this is really too much!" The Major pressed a button under his desk, and two of Millennium's more vigilant soldiers burst into the office, MP-40s at the ready. "Guards! The Warrant Officer has been persistently insubordinate and disrespectful. Shoot the idiot and drag his carcass away."

"You heard him!" Schrodinger said, pointing at the Major. "Shoot the idiot and drag his carcass away!"

The guards almost laughed. Almost. However, becoming immortal had not removed their sense of self-preservation, and so they remained silent.

The Major glared. "I sincerely doubt that you have any right to cast aspersions on my intelligence, Schrodinger."

"Give me leave to prove it to you, Herr Major," Schrodinger said with a theatrical little bow. "If I fail, you may have me shot as much as you wish."

He clasped his hands in front of him. "Warrant Officer, you have aroused my curiosity. Proceed."

Schrodinger nodded. "All right then! Herr Major, let me begin by saying that I have always admired your peaceful nature."

"A poor start, Schrodinger. Whether that is a joke or an insult, it is not true," Major said. "You know very well that there is nothing peaceful within me. I have devoted myself entirely to war- all war, forever."

"Then that makes you an idiot, doesn't it, for despairing when the world has just gotten more dangerous and warlike than ever!" Schrodinger smirked. "Guards, you may fire at will."

The Major stared for a moment while his guards exchanged confused glances. "Gentlemen, please leave us." The soldiers retreated gratefully from the room, and the Major turned back to the catboy. "I eagerly await your explanation, Warrant Officer. I was under the distinct impression that the risk of global conflict had recently experienced a sharp and permanent decline."

"Major, Major, Major." He tsked and twitched his ears. "See, this is why you should keep up with the news!"

Eyeing the catboy quizzically, the Major picked up the newspaper he'd been tossed earlier. The front page proclaimed that over a hundred people were dead in Baku, Azerbaijan. Pro-independence protestors had apparently been the victims of an incredibly harsh crackdown by Soviet forces. The Major couldn't help but smile. "Ah, a bit of trouble accompanying the so-called 'peace'. How lovely to see! But I really don't think it changes-"

"I know you haven't been thinking, Major. Don't worry, that's what your Warrant Officer's here for." Clasping his hands behind his back, Schrodinger began to march back and forth in front of the desk, eyes closed, nose in the air, looking as though he were delivering a lecture. "Now then, we all love war around here, am I right?"

"Ja." The Major watched Schrodinger through lidded eyes.

"And what are wars fought between? Why, people, of course! People who group themselves together into religions or ethnicities or countries." Schrodinger pointed to the soon-to-be-former USSR on the map Major had been stabbing. "For fifty years Ivan kept dozens of different groups under his thumb, and now they're all breaking free! And I don't think they're going to be very happy, Major." He clasped his hands behind his head, stretching. "More countries, more wars. It's really quite simple."

"Smaller wars, though," Major said. "Tiny, piddling little things, unworthy of our attention! This- "he motioned at the dead protestors on the paper, "is something to brighten our day, nothing more. We deserve a grand war! We must have an _extraordinary _war!"

"But it's more exciting this way!" Schrodinger said, his voice edging towards a whine. "Who cares about some old two-way standoff that's either going to never turn violent or end with a ten-minute nuclear exchange that leaves everybody dead before any real fun can be had? This way is a lot more exciting! We don't have to restrict ourselves to dealing with two superpowers. The whole world can be our battleground now, Major! All those different factions, all those different hatreds- in this new world, fighting can go on forever!"

"Forever…" the Major paused for a moment, than stood up and walked away from Schrodinger, hands at his back. He stared at the many pieces of war memorabilia decorating the wall behind his desk. Schrodinger watched him keenly, holding his breath while he waited for his superior to speak.

When he did, his voice was strong and excited. "Forever, hm? No radioactive wasteland, no dull, bloody stalemate in Europe. A world in which our enemies shall not destroy each other for us, but where _we _shall have to strike the death blow to each and every one that dares to oppose us! Not America versus Russia- the Millennium Battalion against the entire planet! A guarantee of the greatest, most spectacular death each of us could hope for, an end of blood and fire…"

Schrodinger grinned ear-to-pointed-ear as his superior continued talking. "Why, Major," he said. "Is it my imagination, or are you feeling a little better?"

Lost in his re-ignited vision, the Major ignored him.

***

"It's taking too long," Dok said, fidgeting. "Schrodinger has probably only succeeded in making him even worse. He'll be furious with all of us now."

"Fuck," Zorin groaned. "Okay, there's still a chance we'll make it out of this with our skins still attached to our bodies. First, let's get our stories straight: it was all the Captain's idea." The werewolf turned to her and raised an eyebrow. "Don't look at me like that! You talked us all into it! Right, Rip?" The Huntress' eyes widened. Zorin pressed on. "Rip, you bitch, don't you dare fuck this up-"

"_First Lieutenant Rip van Winkle, report to the Majorr's office immediately. First Lieutenant Rip van Winkle, to the Major's office at once."_

All eyes turned to Rip. Dok sighed. "It has been an honour, First Lieutenant."

"Sucks to be you, Huntress." Zorin was less sympathetic.

The Captain said nothing, but walked with her to the Major's office, even though he hadn't been called. Rip was reassured somewhat by his silent bulk by her side.

The door to the office was open. The Major's guards flanked it, their expressions unreadable. Rip and the Captain walked in, stood at attention, and saluted. She forced herself to speak. "Obersturmführer Rip van Winkle reporting as ordered, sir!"

"Ah, there you are Lieutenant!" The Major smiled broadly at her, his hair once again combed, his suit once again immaculate. "And Captain, good, I was just about to call you. Bring me some coffee and biscuits, would you?" The Captain nodded and obeyed without batting an eye.

Rip, on the other hand, was taken aback by her superior's transformation back to his old self. Looking around, she saw Schrodinger stretched out on one of the office's chairs, arms behind his head, looking insufferably pleased with himself. The Major's voice refocused her attention.

"Please, stand at ease, Lieutenant. I just wanted to ask you something." The Major kept smiling at her, glancing down frequently at a map he was studying, which showed many pins of red and black stuck all over the United Kingdom. "I just realized that I haven't seen you in any of your trademark suits lately. I seem to vaguely recall perhaps giving you some sort of hasty, foolish order regarding them a few month ago, for which I believe I owe you an apology." To Rip's lasting shock, her superior for half a century then stood up from his desk and bowed courteously to her.

"I- M- Thank you Major, but there's no need," she stammered. "It's all right, really!"

"Yes," he agreed. "Everything's all right now. Please, feel free to wear them again, hm? I delight in seeing each of my valued soldiers express themselves. Oh, and another thing, Lieutenant." He sat back down and clasped his hands in front of him. "I don't believe I can remember the last time I heard your lovely voice. You really should feel free to indulge yourself more often! Would you be so kind as to grace us with a song, to keep my spirits high while I work?" He motioned at the map. "There's been a little change of plans in the campaign, you see. We have a lot of labour and preparation ahead of us!"

"So the campaign is-"

"Still proceeding, of course." The Major lowered his eyelids. "It will never stop- it cannot be stopped. We cannot be stopped! Let thousands or millions or billions stand in our way, we _will_ have our triumph, our blaze of glory, our _war._" The Captain placed a pot of coffee, a cup, and a tray of biscuits in front of him. "Ah, thank you Captain. Now, I require your assistance with these plans. Have you the latest inspection reports? Good. Then let us move forward…"

Rip smiled broadly, beaming at her comrades (even Schrodinger), showing gleaming sharp teeth. Her unit was pulling together. The Major was himself again. For her and Millennium, it was going to be all right- less so for the rest of the world. They would not simply roll over and allow history to march over their prostrate bodies. They had their own march to go on. Standing straight and proud, she took a deep breath and began to sing.

_Wir fuehlen in Horsten und Hoehen  
Des Adlers verwegenes Glueck!  
Wir steigen zum Tor  
Der Sonne empor,  
Wir lassen die Erde zurueck.  
Kamerad! Kamerad! Alle Maedels muessen warten!  
Kamerad! Kamerad! Der Befehl ist da, wir starten!  
Kamerad! Kamerad! Die Losung ist bekannt:  
Ran an den Feind! __Ran an den Feind!  
Bomben auf Engelland!_


End file.
